


The Sixth Child and the Murdering Twin

by Mozzarella



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, Trese (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Magic-Users, Magic-using supernatural detectives in large coats, Mythology - Freeform, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:04:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which The Laughing Magician appears like a bad omen before a cataclysm and the twin whose sister died to become her weapon has to deal with the twin who strangled his brother in the womb . </p><p>Also, darkness is rising. What else is new?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I NEEDED TO WRITE THIS I'M SORRY YOU'RE WELCOME

One word to describe what touching down in Manila felt like:

 

Wet.

 

While it had about the same kind of weather London had in the season—rain, with more rain, a lot of grey and a lot more rain—it was a different kind of wet. The kind that you could feel on your face the moment you stepped off the plane, the kind you breathed in like some kind of cleansing mist right before the smoke of the city hit you.

 

There was something pure about Manila, something not a lot of people appreciated until they were out of it, skin cracking and breath fogging in colder, dryer climes.

 

Part of it was the humidity, and admittedly wearing a trench-coat in an equatorial country wasn't the best move. Another part of it was the belief.

 

The strength of pure belief weighed on the air like the heat and water did, the belief of people who didn't beg an explanation for every single damn thing, the belief of people who understood that the world wasn't meant to be understood, not down to every single piddling detail. Sure, it had its side effects (gullibility and zealotry were a few favourites), but what magic didn't?

 

And yes, it was magic that thrived in the bustling metro.

 

The kind John needed. The kind he'd come here for. But for what he wanted, he couldn't very well just dip his toes into the bay and expect to take even a sliver of the city's boundless energies.

 

No, he had to go to the people (people being a very loose term in this instance) who knew how to handle it. The ones who wouldn't kill him on sight, lick the flesh clean off his bones and crush them into powder to snort later. Now that narrowed the search down to... well, not that many.

 

He knew for a fact that none of the few who had the courtesy not to kill him—well, they certainly wouldn't be happy to see him. And honestly, once they heard what he had to say, he wasn't entirely sure they'd stay firmly under the “not likely to kill him” category.

 

But he came all this way, didn't he? He had to try.

 

So he'd hit up the one he knew was too honourable for the sudden death route, and too important to make decisions lightly.

 

Oh, but Trese wouldn't be pleased to see him.

 

 


	2. Harbinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trese remembers the Laughing Magician

“I need to speak to your boss.”

 

“Ma'am, you need to calm down.”

 

“It's important!” the woman screamed, foaming flecking the sides of her mouth. In her hand, she clutched a piece of paper, fist so tight she was close to ripping it. “Please, let me see her!”

 

“Hank.”

 

The woman froze, looking up at the top of the steps where Alexandra Trese stood, her very presence calming the newcomer down.

 

“Trese,” she gasped, holding out the paper for the other woman to take. “Trese, they told me to come to you. They told me to warn you.”

 

“You're one of the manghuhula in Quiapo,” Trese remarked as she held her hand out.

 

“Yes. Yes, I am,” she said shakily. “The others... we all had the same message. I came because the... the others are older than I am. I didn't want them to... to strain themselves. This was a hardship to carry.”

 

Trese took the piece of paper from the woman's hands and flinched, though barely. It was an anting-anting, roughly etched onto a cheap pad, the human figure in the center a familiar sight, if one that Trese hadn't seen in years.

 

“A hardship,” Trese repeated. “Hardship is an understatement. Thank you, Ate, for bringing this to our attention. I wish you good fortunes of your own.”

 

The woman smiled, relieved, free of the burden she was carrying as she left the bar.

 

“Prepare the back room,” Trese ordered. “We have a guest coming over this evening.”

 

“A guest?” “Or a _guest_?” The Kambal questioned in turn, already frowning in anticipation of the answer. 

 

“Not the kind we have to kill,” Trese clarified. “But not a pleasant one to have, either. Be ready for the trouble he might bring.” Her expression darkened as she made her way up to the back room. “Constantine,” she muttered. “Always brings trouble. Whether he intends to or not.” 

 

* * *

 

The persona of the Laughing Magician varied in every country, every land and lore, though they continued to exist, just as tricksters and guides and other such figures did in mythology and folklore. They were irreverent, disrespectful—but necessarily so, humbling the proud and keeping the rest on their toes.

 

A young Alexandra Trese learned of them long ago, studying the books in her lolo's library. They transcended time and space, 'laughing' at gods and powerful beings, often harbingers of misfortune. She remembered meeting the man, John Constantine, who her father said was dangerous—a magician who had no loyalties, who learned everything he knew all on his own. It was almost admirable, though the man himself didn't look like much. 

 

A blond man, scruffy, diminished by his over-large tan coat the day he left (before his departure, Trese often saw him with his coat off, white sleeves rolled up, in the equatorial heat), was seared into Trese's mind—less so his face, which she could remember vaguely, but could not hold onto. 

 

He was young compared to her father. Crass, but not disrespectful—a thin line he toed magnificently. He clearly deferred to Anton Trese's knowledge and wisdom, but he looked after his own interests, learning higher arts for himself rather than in service of others. 

 

Young Alex had been intrigued by his nature then, but the Trese now knew that that kind of a man was not one she could trust. Soon enough, the moment she dreaded came to pass, as John Constantine walked through the door. 

 


End file.
